The Waiting Game
by Lady of Immortals
Summary: Set in modern times. Arthur is soon to return, and Merlin is waiting. Always waiting. A/M Slash. Warning: some disturbing themes.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything from Merlin, nor do I make any money from this story.

A/N: Hi! So, this is my first post! I have another one shot and a couple of multi-chapter stories that I'm working on, but I'm not posting them until they're finished. I'm aiming for one post a week. Hopefully I'll manage it. Depends on whether life will let me.

This just came to me a few days ago. It kind of went in a different direction than I thought it would when I started. To the point where Merlin seems a bit...unhinged. But never mind! I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

**The Waiting Game.**

Sometimes it feels as though my entire existence has consisted of the waiting. But that's a ridiculous notion. If all I am is waiting, if that is all I ever have been, then I wouldn't know what I am waiting for.

But I do.

I am waiting for _him_.

Arthur.

The Once and Future King.

My King.

Oh, I have seen many kings over the centuries. Queens too. None of them could measure up to Arthur. He was truly the greatest of them all.

Do not mistake me, I respected most of them-some just sickened me. Elizabeth Tudor was one of my favourites. She reminded me of Arthur in some ways. She was devoted to her people, always doing what she could to protect them. The Golden Age, her reign was named. And it was. Though it could never live up to the glory that was Albion under the rule of Arthur Pendragon.

Then she died, as he did and the effects of her rule died, as his did.

All things must die in time.

Except me, it seems.

No, I must linger on. Observe the world, so that when Arthur returns I can show him all that has become of Albion and counsel him in how to rebuild it.

There are wonders to behold, sure. This world has such power, such _knowledge_. But it is cold, empty. Science, technology and people have overrun the earth. The Old Religion's influence is barely felt. Even one such as me, connected to the wild magic as I am, has trouble accessing the power of the earth. Luckily, my own magic is strong enough for me to continue practising.

But I am cold and empty too.

For over fifteen centuries I have wandered alone. Watching as those around me wither and die. Everyone I knew, gone with the blink of an eye, yet their ageing stretched on like an eternity.

The pain never left me after Arthur's passing, and it grew greater as each of my friends left me behind. I resolved then, after Lancelot's death to never open my heart to another. To never make another friend. But that did not stop me from recognising people on the street. Seeing them pass on, knowing that I would never have that peaceful rest.

For I am cursed. The wanderer. Never ageing a day.

Arthur used to complain endlessly about it. He used to look in the mirror and see a new line on his brow and grumble that age chose to ravage him but not me. It was unfair, he said.

But at night as we lay in bed, his strong arms holding me close, he used to marvel. Wonder at how I, still with the face of an eighteen year old, could love a man who looked every day of his thirty-some years.

It was his heart that drew my affections, I assured him. Though his face was never unattractive to me. He bore his age well. It added to his regal air.

I know he worried that I would look at him one day and decide that I wanted a younger man. But there is no other for me. Could never be. Arthur is my soul's other half, our hearts beat in tandem. Or they did.

His is stopped now. Has been for centuries. My own heart shattered when his stopped. For days I could not move, could not _think_ for the agony.

Eventually, though, my friends picked me up and carried me from the shore. They cared for me, helped me regain my strength. It was years before I spoke again or ate without being forced. I found the will to build myself a semblance of a life, I could not ignore the whispers of destiny forever.

And then I began my wanderings.

The pain never left however. I feel it even now. A hollowness inside. An all-encompassing loneliness. I shall never heal. Not until we are reunited.

We _will_ be reunited one day. Destiny still whispers in my ear.

I only hope that this time, I am allowed to age with him. I could not bear to be without him after finding him once more.

I feel that the day of our reunion is soon to come. Albion is suffering. It needs it's beloved king.

At least Mordred will not be a threat to my love.

I felt it, the moment he was reborn. That much magic entering this otherwise sterile world stood out as torch in a cave.

I tracked it, finding myself cloaked in spells of invisibility in a maternity ward in the middle of the night. As I gazed down at the infant, he opened his eyes. He looked straight at me, as though he could sense my presence. I knew then without a doubt that it was him. No other could hold that hint of malice in innocent eyes.

I killed him. As easily as I killed a rat in Arthur's chambers once. Of course, Mordred put up more of a fight, his magic battering me like waves against a cliff. But I stood firm. Once I was assured that the doctors could not revive him, I left.

I pitied his wailing mother, and felt a wave of remorse. Perhaps he could have been better in this life? Then destiny murmured to me again, and I knew he wouldn't have been. Destroying him cleared danger from the path of Arthur's return.

Protecting Arthur comes before all other things. It is the thing I was built for. It is all I am. I love him, and so I protect him.

There are things coming. Terrible things that will threaten to destroy the already fragile Albion. I sense them approaching.

All shall be well, though. Arthur will set things to rights. He is preparing for his return. Destiny tells me so.

My magic is thrumming stronger than ever beneath my skin. Anticipating the approaching time when it can once more be used to it's full potential.

That time is soon, but not quite here. So, for now, I must continue to wait. As I always have.


End file.
